Unto Us
by Goldleaf83
Summary: December 1942: A time of fear and love and hard-fought hope. A story in the "Conversations" series.


"_Unto Us": Yet another of my Conversations stories—this one set early in the war. It may work on its own, but it probably makes more sense if you know at least one other story in the series ("Fishing," Unspoken," "Scars," "The Power of the Sun," "Dead Men Tell No Tales")._

ooOoo

_Tuesday, December 8, 1942_

_Bridgeport, Connecticut_

It's cold. My breath hangs in the air in front of me when I puff it out, and I walk through each small mist I create. I walk briskly but carefully, keeping my eyes on the sidewalk. It's well shoveled—all our neighbors are very responsible, especially given that we're all doing so much more walking and less driving than we did before the war. But ice patches can form anywhere, and the light is failing fast. Ann would kill me if I fell and hurt myself—she worries a lot about anyone falling these days.

I shiver. Winter seems colder to me this year, even though it's just starting. I wonder if it really is chillier this year, or if it's my age or just my own poor spirits that make it seem so.

Years back, winter was a time for fun. As a boy I skated, went sledding and skiing. When my own children were young I encouraged them to play outside and enjoy the winter too. A memory of Rob surfaces, on his sled at five years old, sliding down a too-icy hill in the park towards a street, with me running full out after him, to catch up and stop him before he slid out in front of a streetcar.

He tumbled off the sled in time and grinned charmingly up at me from the snowbank as I caught up to him. He was delighted with his great wild ride; I was just trying to get my heart started again once I knew he was safe.

I shake off the memory, turning the corner. As I walk the final block towards home and warmth and my wife, I hum a few bars from the choir's anthem in church, an oratorio from Handel's _Messiah_. It has been running unstoppably through my head since Sunday's service in the way that melodies often haunt me: "For unto us a Child is born / Unto us a Son is given. . . ."

I have been given three sons—and a daughter: each different, each valued, loved, and cherished. Ann and I have always counted ourselves fortunate in our children: they were all born healthy, survived the usual childhood ailments without difficulty, and grew into strong adults.

Yet as I walk, tuneless now, through the gathering darkness, I cannot help wondering if I still have three sons.

Rob was reported "Missing in Action" five months ago, his plane shot down over Germany. Our little fire of hope that he is still alive has been burning down lower and lower: the embers still smolder but we've had no news to stoke them with. _Where is he?_ I wonder for the thousandth time.

Rob has always had a knack for falling on his feet, but certainly he never needed it more than he must have that day back in July. Is he alive and in hiding, or slowly making his way through enemy territory? Captured and trapped in a camp for prisoners of war? Or dead—buried in some foreign cemetery? Or worse, nameless and unburied in some field or wood?

I never voice these last terrible fears aloud to Ann—nor she to me, though she must dread them just as I do. I cannot give them shape in words spoken aloud. But in the absence of news my mind tortures me with the possibilities.

Finally I turn into the walk in front of my own house. The white service banner, framed in red, hanging in the window draws my eye as I climb the steps to the front porch. It could almost be mistaken for a Christmas banner with those colors—except for the blue star in the center. But at least the star is still blue, not gold. _There's still hope_, I tell myself fiercely, willing myself to believe it. I stamp my feet on the outside doormat, making sure I get as much of the snow and ice off as I can off before I walk in so that I won't make more work for Ann.

I open the door, greeted by the welcoming warmth and light of the hallway as I enter. As I doff my coat and then my boots one at a time, putting on the house shoes that Ann has thoughtfully left for me, I sniff to discover what might be cooking for dinner.

I don't smell anything except the piney scent of the Christmas tree that we put up over the weekend. Nor do I hear anything. The house is quiet as a grave.

Abruptly alarmed, I call out, "Ann?!"

All I hear is silence, then a distant chair scrapes—out in the kitchen.

"In here, John."

Ann's voice is muffled and sounds very wrong.

I hurry through the living room, hardly noticing the unlit tree. As I enter the kitchen, I see Ann sitting at the table, facing me, very still, her hands clasped together in front of her mouth. An unopened telegram sits in front of her.

_Rob._

It has to be news of him. We'll finally know, one way or another.

I come around to the table and put my hand on her shoulder. She raises her hand to cover mine, clutching tightly, but she doesn't stand up or look away from the envelope. I wonder how long it's been sitting there, how long she has been looking at it.

"I couldn't open it. Not without you here," she whispers.

I do understand. Somehow it feels like if we don't open it, all the possibilities are still in play.

Most likely, the news will be bad. The chances of Rob being alive, after so many months without news, are so very slim.

I know this with my head, but my heart yearns for my son.

I sit down at the table and pick up the telegram with shaking fingers, reluctant to open it, as if somehow that will set his fate in stone.

But this line of thinking is irrational. Whatever has happened has already happened. We cannot affect it, only deal with it. I pull out my pocketknife and slit open the envelope, then put the knife down on the table, very precisely. Ann puts her left hand over her mouth. I pull out the telegram and take her right hand with my left, gripping tightly as I unfold it to read it aloud.

Its message is terse:

"Report just received through the International Red Cross states that your son Colonel Robert E Hogan is a prisoner of war of the German government."

Ann collapses into sobs that mingle the joy that he is alive with a whole new set of fears now that we know that he is a prisoner. I slide my chair around and gather her to me, holding her tightly, chanting in my mind over and over, _He's alive, he's alive, he's alive_. . . .

Eventually—I have no idea how long, for time seems to have lost all meaning—I give Ann a little squeeze and shake, and I whisper to her, "Let's go in the living room." I feel her nod against my neck. She's not done with tears—neither of us will be for a long time to come, I'm sure—but she's ready to start coping with our new reality. Rob is a prisoner and has been in Nazi hands for who knows how long. He has enough rank that he must know much information that the Nazis would want, and I am afraid for him. Who knows what he has been through? And it's still an open question whether he will survive the war.

But right now we know he is alive, and for that alone we are so grateful.

I steer her gently to the sofa and settle her there, but just before I sit down with her she asks, "Turn the tree lights on, will you please, John?"

I nod and kiss the top of her head. We're lucky that we bought new lights for the tree a year ago, just as the war started. New ones are almost impossible to get this year and will be for the duration of the war.

We debated whether to put up a tree this year at all, with Rob missing. But we know that he would want us to celebrate the holiday, whatever happens to him—he said so in his letters two years ago, when he was writing us from London in the midst of the Blitz. It is not unusual for us to have Christmas without him: he has missed far more Christmases than he has been home for during his Army Air Corps career. That never worried me when he was younger: my brother had fought in the War to End All Wars, and I never imagined in the 1920s and early 30s that Rob's military career would put him in great danger. That view began to look hopelessly naïve by 1938, and especially once he left for England in 1940. We were very worried about him for the last two Christmases. But not knowing his fate has made this approaching holiday far more difficult than in years past: we feel his absence differently this Christmas.

Ann has planned for the family to gather here for Christmas, however, and in the end Christmas without a tree for the grandchildren was unthinkable for her. So I got the boxes of ornaments and lights down from the attic on Sunday and we decorated the tree.

But she wouldn't let me put up the gold foil and tinsel star that has topped the tree for many years. "Not a gold star, John," she said with a catch in her voice, and I could only agree.

She's made a new star for this year, red with silver glitter, cut out from a Christmas card saved from a few years back and glued onto a stiff cardboard backing. It's simple, but made with love and hard-fought hope, and it sparkles in the light as I turn on the brightly colored bulbs.

With the tree glowing from its lights, I join Ann on the couch, my arm around her shoulder as she nestles in to me. She whispers, "Rob's alive," and I nod, wordless, but Handel's oratorio is now running again in my head, both tune and lyrics.

"Unto us a Son is given."

Yes, thank God.

Christmas comes laden with extra meaning for us all this year.

And God help me, but now I understand Good Friday and Easter better as well.

ooOoo

_Author's note: Service banners (also called service flags) were displayed in windows by the families of servicemen during World War II, a custom that started during World War I. As mentioned in the story, they consisted of a white field with a broad red border; a blue star for each family member serving in the armed forces was set in the middle. A gold star was sewn over the blue star if the service member it represented died during service._

_Merry Christmas, to all of you who celebrate the holiday! _


End file.
